


King David

by honeybun, Sabou



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Fluff, Forbidden Love, M/M, Pining, clingy diarmuid, sheep wool theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-06 01:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21218018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabou/pseuds/Sabou
Summary: Diarmuid’s breath caught when he saw him tilling soil or helping to sow the food that would feed them all year around. He felt a childish possession over the mute, he was his friend – he was his.





	King David

Chamomile from the garden, a snip of rosemary from the bushel by the gate, and then a lily by the side of the meadow, a dried rose with pure white petals that he had been keeping especially - pegged up on the pulley in the kitchen. 

Diarmuid scurried around quickly, head in the clouds while he by luck dodged several accidents of his own making - a few hens clucking away near his feet almost tripping him, the hem of his robe doing the same, one laybrother bumping into him as he absentmindedly turned a corner. He didn’t think his mute laybrother would know the significance, he certainly hoped not, and he acknowledged his naive and innocent presumption that hopefully none of his brothers might find out was possibly short sighted. However, as was typical for Diarmuid, and indeed, not so much a valued quality amongst his brothers, he pursued on with his heartfelt plan. 

The soothing noises of monastery life followed him as he walked, the clucking of hens from the kitchen garden, the thud of tools against rich earth from one of the lay brothers - not the brother he was looking for, however - and then the far off wash of the sea against pebbles. He let himself revel for a second, excited over his little self assigned task and especially about the person he was to deliver it to. Scolding himself for pride, he tried to stem the blush rushing to his cheeks, but this was all so new to him, he’d never been able or allowed to gift anything to his brothers in the monastery, and none of them would care so much about Diarmuid to receive it happily anyway. He could imagine Cathal now, frown slipping into place, a sympathetic smile, ‘Now now, young Diarmuid, have you been wasting your time with this? Surely your efforts would be much better suited to the scriptorium, or the kitchen, no? They’re always happy to have you.’ 

Thankfully he was not as unfortunate as to only have brother Cathal now, or Ciaran, although his brothers were good to him, they were kind and they coped with his endless curiosity well, they were nothing against the mute laybrother. 

Diarmuid had begun walking with him in Spring of last year, the laybrother wouldn’t often have time for himself, and even then he would rarely be found doing something so leisurely as taking a walk. Diarmuid had actually come across him hunting, setting up rabbit traps just at the edge of the forest while Diarmuid carried a basket to collect mushrooms and various herbs. He wasn’t sure whether the older man had wanted him there, but he had stayed regardless, babbling along about this and that, about how he wished to make them all a herb garden closer to the monastery, to study the properties of plants in order to improve his knowledge on their medicinal qualities. The mute had walked alongside him quietly, feet making larger impressions in the marshy ground than Diarmuid’s. They had circled around the edge of the forest and Diarmuid hadn’t stopped talking even while the mute had bent down to reset a trap here and there, not until the laybrother had stared at him intensely, eyebrows drawing together. His hand beckoned him.

‘Oh I’m sorry, am I talking too much? Brother Cathal says that talking so much means there’s surely less room in my head to think on our lord-’

The mute shook his head and touched Diarmuid, for the first time, or at least, that is what Diarmuid remembers, frequently, his whole hand had encompassed the small knob of his shoulder and heat radiated through. He made a low grunt and gestured towards the side of a tree. 

Diarmuid looked, mouth open a little in curiosity, and then suddenly his eyes widening and face stretching into a smile, dimples in his cheeks peeking out, ‘Oh!!! I see! Chamomile! What is it doing here? How strange for it to grow at the edge of the forest here-’ 

Diarmuid couldn’t be stopped for long, and was soon on his knees digging around the herb to displace it as gently as possible. The mute fluttered around him, frowning and his hands circling Diarmuid’s shoulders as if he was worried what might happen if he was left there. 

‘It isn’t poisonous, don’t worry,’ Diarmuid flashed a shy smile up to the mute, whose hands seemed to stop their fluttering. Diarmuid thought that they had always seemed to understand one another so well, he wasn’t sure as to why. 

Eventually he was happy with the section of the plant he had taken for propagation, and placed it in his basket among a few mushrooms. Suddenly down the hill, back to the monastery, the bells chimed.

‘Oh! Goodness! Is that- I really have to rush, uhm-’ Diarmuid floundered, looking at his basket which had a measly three mushrooms held there, ‘They won’t be best pleased…’ Diarmuid’s small hand drifted up to his mouth, as a finger worried at his lip. 

The mute seemed to make some sort of decision and flapped his hands at Diarmuid, snatching up his basket. Due to the mute being, well, mute, Diarmuid wasn’t quite sure how he was to respond, let alone argue. 

Diarmuid had rushed back to the monastery and hoped no one recognised the flush in his face or mud on his boots, hoped no one had seen him walking with the tall and broad figure of the monk. He wasn’t good at making up stories, and he would certainly feel bad for it, and all that was left was to tell the truth, which would perhaps be more damning than to lie. 

When Diarmuid had been released from their readings, he had quickly found his way to the kitchen, and sitting amongst a few freshly caught rabbits had been his basket. Not only filled with chamomile, but with mushrooms too, dozens of them. From then on, whenever Diarmuid had seen the mute laybrother, he had felt a terrible softness in his chest, and a shy smile break free. 

From that Spring to Summer, Summer to Winter, and then back they were again at Spring. Diarmuid tried harder not to blush when the mute now came to the kitchen, or when he found him waiting by the gate to the meadow, but it was a close thing. The mute didn’t smile, no, but his thick beard obscured most of his face, his dark curls also sometimes fell into his eyes, but Diarmuid was certain he could gauge the mute’s emotions. Something about the way his eyes held Diarmuid’s, or how he pressed his chest forward a little, with his hands clasped behind his back. Diarmuid sometimes wished he could push his hair a little out of his eyes just to see his expression a little clearer. But no, that would be bad, that would be a terrible idea. 

Today though, Diarmuid trotted on his way towards where he might find the mute, he would have been labouring all day - and how Diarmuid’s breath caught when he saw him tilling soil or helping to sow the food that would feed them all year around. When he found the mute he was leading their small flock of sheep up towards the fields. Diarmuid had watched in the new year as he had helped birth all the new lambs, through the day and into the night, rubbing them until they awoke with a bleat, now he ushered them up through the gate into the pasture. He had been repairing the dry stone wall all day and his hands were chalky and looked rubbed red. 

The mute looked up at Diarmuid’s approaching steps and, again, Diarmuid could swear that he observed some sort of smile on his face, but perhaps that was wishful thinking. The mute nodded his head in greeting, turned to show an armful of hay to signal he would be with Diarmuid as soon as he was done, Diarmuid smiled and nodded, his pockets burning, as was the basket by his side. 

To watch the mute laybrother work was a marvel, he seemed to have a way with the animals, gentle and knowledgeable. Dee had wondered whether he might have worked with horses before, certainly he must have worked the land, as the mute had contributed his own strange knowledge to the monastery and now they were much better off than they ever had been before. A bounty of vegetables and wealthy livestock meant that there wasn’t any tension in Winter, and Diarmuid had even had strawberries last Summer to make jam and cordial with, and honey and wax from bees that the mute tended.

Finally - for Diarmuid was not and will never be a patient boy - the mute was done, and with purposeful steps he made his way towards Diarmuid. His clothing was the colour of warm, freshly tilled earth, and he felt much the same. If Diarmuid was to describe him it would be with similar words - warm, earthy, home. The hair at the nape of his neck had begun to form small curls with sweat beading there, and his hair had been getting in the way even more so than before - Diarmuid had never forgotten when the mute had handed him some shearing clips and gestured to his head. He’d been so incredibly careful, even sequestering away a lock or two away in his robe while the mute hadn’t looked, he’d trimmed the hair but he refused to cut it any shorter. At night he had taken the stolen curls out of his robe and held them by the candle light, thick and soft, shiny with oil, Diarmuid had let himself touch them and stare as much as he liked, as much as he wished he could with the lay brother himself. He wondered whether it was coming close to that time again, he almost hoped so, just to feel the soft curls in between his fingertips again, just to have him so close again. 

The mute stopped in front of Diarmuid and cocked his head, one large hand tapping Diarmuid’s which held the basket, Diarmuid smiled and shook his head, this wasn’t for him to carry today. 

‘I thought we could take a little walk along the shore, what do you think?’ Diarmuid enquired gently. The mute nodded once, and turned to face the direction of the shore. 

The two set off at a good speed, and once outside the monastery they slowed a little, the mute’s longer legs matching Diarmuid’s leisurely pace as they strolled towards the pebbled shore, the sound of the waves sucking at the stones as it went out. The sea grass and heather was growing green again, and Diarmuid chose their usual spot on a large piece of bleached driftwood, strong enough to withstand the weight of the two of them. 

It had been playing on his mind, all the small things the mute did for him, and the large ones too. He would often find little herbs and plants in the kitchen, or rare ingredients for draughts and balms, sometimes animal pelts that had been made into warm clothing for him. He knew who they all were from, he did what he could to repay the kind gestures, but it never felt enough. Ever since their walks had begun, and the strange soft friendship between them had blossomed, Diarmuid had been thinking of what more he could do. 

He had to steel his courage when the mute sat next to him and cast his dark eyes over to Diarmuid questioningly. 

‘I have something for you,’ Diarmuid said, fumbling a little with his basket and one hand in his pockets, ‘It isn’t much, you know, but I thought-’ Diarmuid looks again into the mute’s dark eyes, his eyebrows now drawing together, ‘It’s a special occasion, so…’ With that, the mute’s browns even more severely join as his mouth straightens into a hard line. 

‘Put out your hand,’ Diarmuid says, soft and nervous and excited all at once. 

The mute puts out his hand, and into it Diarmuid plops a little gourd of balm, specially made by his hand, using the ingredients the mute had found for him.

‘Something to soothe your hands, you know? You work ever so hard, and uhm- Can I? Can I help you put it on?’ 

Whether it was happy consent or stunned silence, Diarmuid does not know, but the mute allows him to dip a few fingers into the balm and rub against his rough hands. Diarmuid gets lost in the contours of the mute’s palm, and even more so at how large his hand seems against Diarmuid’s small one, delicate fingers fanning across the breadth of it. 

After what may have been a few moments or minutes, the mute makes a happy humming noise, and Diarmuid looks up to see his eyes closed, head leaning back in bliss. Diarmuid bows his head and strokes the lay brother's hand with both of his. 

‘I have something else, too,’ Diarmuid says, flushing - curse his fair skin which gives him no choice but to bare his feelings to the world. 

The mute opens up an eye, and Diarmuid places the basket in his lap and brings out the small posy of flowers and herbs. 

‘It is not much, but it will smell sweet by your pillow, and it will certainly look nice, just what I could find around the garden-’ Diarmuid avoids the mute’s eyes, but he’s sure he will know there is more to it, regardless. Lily for purity, the white rose for his fidelity and purest love, rosemary and chamomile for his sweetness. But he will not know that, he hopes he will never know that. 

The mute brings the posy up to his nose, looking miniscule in his large palm, his eyes closing again as he inhales. The look he gives Diarmuid when he opens his eyes again makes Diarmuid’s heart stutter in his chest, his breath gets trapped in his throat and he can’t quite remember how to breathe. 

The mute gestures to the balm, the posy, the basket with little things stored away for them to eat, an enquiring question placed by his lips.

‘I thought- Oh lord-’ He didn’t think, Diarmuid malented, he never thought enough, ‘It will sound silly-’ at least, the worst it will sound is insulting and mad and unwanted and he could be- what is at stake is _ too much _ but he _ trusts _ the mute… 

‘I thought it could be your birthday.’

Now the mute looks truly confused.

‘It’s just we don’t know very much about you, and not even a name so I thought I could, uh, give you one- oh, um- no but that sounds so silly and insulting, I didn’t mean for it to be like that and brother Cathal always says it doesn’t matter if your intentions were good but-’ the mute’s hand is patting at Diarmuid’s knee, covered by his brown robe. 

Looking at the laybrother makes him take a deep breath, ‘I was reading and- I don’t like to call you laybrother or, or-’ _or _ _ Mute _ _, as the others do_, Diarmuid left unsaid, ‘It is much better to call you something else now that we are- we are friends,’ and what a difficult thing that is to get out. 

Diarmuid looks towards the mute, who seems pensive, seems like he is trying to school his features into a well known blankness. 

‘I thought, well, what about David?’ Diarmuid says, the salty wind blowing away his words as soon as he’d said them, cheeks fully red now, and hands twining together like weeds. 

The mute says nothing, and so Diarmuid continues on, ‘King David, you see, the h-hero, we look at his chivalrous acts and- and’ Diarmuid stopped short again and his words died on the wind. 

The mute wasn’t looking at him, his shoulders stooped down and his gaze was in the sand in front of him, his hand twitched on the material of his pants. 

‘I-I’m so sorry if I have spoken out of turn-’ Diarmuid couldn’t do anything to quell the tears of shame that threatened to fall as everything came tumbling down around him, his foolish, childish plan, everything that he shouldn’t do, but he _ did _ . Why would he have supposed to do this, to act as if it was his to choose, that he was a _ friend _ rather than some silly _ child- _

The mute’s hand was gently patting at his knee again, and Diarmuid looks up to the kind eyes of the mute. He is pointing to something on the ground, scratched with a thin twig but legible all the same.

**D A V I D**

Diarmuid stops in wonder for a moment, and for a moment his mind expands in what he had previously thought of his friend, the story he had spun almost nightly about his appearance here on their green isle. The mute is looking at him, and to make Diarmuid turn towards him, he takes his chin in his large hand. 

Diarmuid looks at the mute, and for the first time he sees him smile. It is such a pretty thing, the older man looks so very handsome anyway, but now it is doubly so as the smile animates his face. It sets Diarmuid’s stomach fluttering at ten times its usual speed around the mute.

‘Do you like it?’ Diarmuid asks, breath short and shallow. The mute nods. 

Diarmuid often thinks of the chronicle, the three Irish men - his countrymen, who came in a boat without oars, as they wished for God to lead their boat, either to death, which they were more than prepared for, or to their chosen path. He thinks of his friend’s arrival, the cross on his back, and sometimes, when the candles have been snuffed out and he should be asleep, readying for the next day, he wonders if the mute had been sent to him, sent by God. His curragh had similarly been free from oars, and when he had come to the monastery he had asked for nothing, had only given, and Diarmuid had noticed that the man had always followed him around, not physically but always in thought. He had provided for him in more ways than one, with the skins and the food and through his labour, but also with his company, which before him was so sorely craved. 

He felt a childish possession over the mute, he was his, he was his friend, his _ first _ friend. And now he had given him a name, _David_. 

David smiled still, and Diarmuid noticed their hands had been holding onto one another for a few moments now as Diarmuid dreamed. 

‘David suits you,’ his friend beamed, tapped his head and let his hand hover above it for a minute, ‘Yes,’ laughed Diarmuid, ‘King David.’ 

He was sure that was some kind of blasphemy, and David knew it too surely, but that didn’t seem to matter when it was just the two of them. Soft and gentle and secret. Diarmuid had never held secrets before, he didn’t suppose he had the chance too, but this was the biggest secret he could ever wish to hold. 

On their way back to the monastery, basket now being held more firmly by David, their shoulders brushed from time to time, and David let a large hand rest of Diarmuid’s shoulder before slipping away as they neared the edge of the garden wall. 

‘I will see you tomorrow, David,’ Diarmuid breathed, as David gave him another smile, the second in as many years as he had known him now. 

Before David left for the stables, he pressed his hand to his chest for a moment, and then picked up Diarmuid’s hand too, and pressed it there. He was warm even though his clothes, and David looked at him as he held him there, Diarmuid didn’t need words, he knew what he meant.

‘In here. You are in here.’ 

**Author's Note:**

> A gift from my precious pebble @honeybun


End file.
